Letting it "Rip" in Scherersville

When I agreed to do a blog a few weeks ago, I promised to give readers a true "inside" look at my world of local sports.

Well, you can't get any more "inside" than what I'm about to tell you.

Tonight something happened that hadn't happened in 25 previous years of covering local sports. At least, if it did, thankfully, I wasn't aware of it.

Tonight, I covered a baseball game after having split the backside of my shorts. And when I say split, I'm not talking about a tear of an inch or two. I'm talking about the Continental Divide.

And the worst part is that I didn't even know it, at least not for a real long time.

Here's how my night to forget unfolded:

I grabbed my tools of the trade for baseball coverage as I scrambled out of my car at Scherersville Park for the Tri-County League playoff opener between the Fleetwings and Jordan Creek. I grab my tablet, a couple of pens, a tape recorder, my cellphone, a Diet Coke and most importantly, my lawnchair, and saunter off to a spot along the third-base line next to Mr. Swatsky, the scorekeeper for the Fleetwings.

I plant myself in the lawnchair, and just got out a "Hello, haven't seen you for a long time" to Swatsky when I get tapped on the shoulder by John Arrington, the owner of the Coplay Reds, who was at the game as a fan.

I turn around expecting to hear from Arrington either:

(A) "Thanks, Keith, for coming out and covering our league."

(B) "Thanks for the story you did on our team a couple of weeks ago."

Or, maybe (C) "I've been reading "Groller's Corner" and you're really doing a good job on that Internet thing."

Well, to my disappointment, I didn't get A, B or C.

Instead, I hear, "Keith, I don't know if you know this, but you split your pants."

Stunned, I fumble for a response and say: "Are you kidding me?"

Arrington remains dead serious. "No, I'm not."

Realizing now that's he not joking around, I ask "How wide is the split?" I figured that since I didn't feel a breeze or hear any kind of a tear in my haste to get out of the car, it couldn't be that noticeable.

Arrington holds his hands about a foot apart, suppresses a chuckle and then departs.

I'm sure he wasn't the only one to notice my unusual attire, but he was kind enough to bring it to my attention. Thankfully, this wasn't a packed basketball game at Cedar Beach or the NASCAR race at Pocono I'm about to cover next week.

It was only the Tri-County League and only parents and friends, totaling about 40 or 50 people, were around to watch.

Still, at this point, I'm mortified. I'm thinking about two questions -- How I am going to cover this game without ever getting out of the lawnchair? How will I do post-game interviews without people seeing the split in my shorts?

I'm praying for the game to go long, preferably to extra innings, and for darkness to help me out. Forget about seeing the white ball, I'm hoping it goes so long that no one will be able to see the white of my Fruit of the Looms.

A couple of people heard Arrington's observation and offered ideas to help.

Donna Ganser offered to get her husband's baseball jacket so that I could tie it around the back of my shorts. Nice idea, but me having a jacket around my waist on an 85-degree night may have looked more bizarre than the actual hole in my pants.

Mr. Swatsky suggested that if my golf shirt was long enough, I should untuck it and let it drape down as far as possible to cover the rip in my shorts, which, by this point, had created a hole in my heart.

Much to my chagrin, the game ended in broad daylight. Usually, I get up immediately, do my interviews and try to get out of there fast and off to a computer to start my story.

But this time, I sat around a long time before getting up, hoping everyone would clear out.

I really sat there unsure what to do. Talk about giving new meaning to the phrase "Split Decision."

Well, Mr. Swatsky's suggestion worked well. Fortunately, my shirt was, indeed, long. Once I untucked it, it stretched nearly to my knees. I may have looked like a slob, but at least I didn't look like a street person or someone trying to give someone else a very cheap thrill.

I quickly conducted my interviews with the players, even engaged in a brief conversation with umpire Joe LaBella, and, not taking any chances, walked gingerly to my car trying to attract as little attention to myself as possible.

I am not making any of this up. Even if I tried to make something like this up, I couldn't. After seeing my byline for more than 25 years, Morning Call readers know by now that I'm not this creative.

If you doubt this story, feel free to ask Ganser or Swatsky, or especially Arrington, who evidentally had the best view.

Or you could ask my wife.

Because, rather than going back into the office where -- God forbid --- the split might have originally occurred, I headed straight home.

Of course, getting from the driveway to the front door provided another obstacle. But again, the long shirt helped, and by this time, it was nearly completely dark.

One of my flaws is that I tend to blame others, especially my bride of 25 years, whenever something goes wrong. I intended to rip into her for pressing a pair of shorts obviously too tight for me to wear.

I was fired up and stormed inside. But just as I said, "Hey, Margie, look at what happened to me tonight," and lifted up the back of my shirt and turned around to show her, she began to laugh, and laugh hard.

It wasn't the first time she has laughed when given a peek at one of my undergarments, but she had never laughed this hard.

"Oh, I'm glad this is funny to you!" I snarled.

"I can't believe you didn't know it was ripped like that," she taunted as she laughed even harder. "Just so you know, I'm not fixing that."

"Well, it was a calm night. There was no wind. You have no idea what kind of embarrassment this caused me," I barked back.

But she just kept laughing to the point that I thought she might join me in needing a change of pants.

I took off the source of my nightmare, the see-through shorts, sought out the nearest garbage can, and fumed on my way toward my dresser to secure another pair of shorts.

"Hey, look at it this way," my wife giggled. "Now, you finally have something entertaining to write about in your 'Groller's Corner' blog."

Forgive me if I take the next couple of nights off from "Groller's Corner."